


Abraham's Daughter

by ooinugirloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (but they love each other), Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Pre-Slash, stiles and allison are bros, they're fighting for their lives romance is not a priority, this is sterek in the same way that THG is katniss/gale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:23:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooinugirloo/pseuds/ooinugirloo
Summary: You’re still looking at Scott when they call the male Tribute’s name. Your mind goes blank, you feel totally numb. You can’t process what you just heard—it’s echoing in your mind, but you can’t, won’t, don’t want to understand it. “Scott McCall”, It hits you like a bullet, you stagger back, disbelieving. Scott himself looks vacant, eyes dead as if in preparation for the Games to come. You breathe—heavily, painfully; panting in terror of losing him, your brother. You realize what you have to do and you straighten, heartbeat evening out. You are suddenly, horribly, selfishly glad that you are a boy and can volunteer for Scott.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I dont know why I do this to myself, but this went from a series of self-indulgent drabbles to this 20k monster. I sort of hybridized Katniss and Peeta to better fit with their TW counterparts, and also so that I could write this without actually rewriting THG as much as possible. Also, I googled how much a sack of flour would weigh, bc 12 seemed very turn-of-the-century mining town to me, and the old-timey measurement for a sack of flour was 2 bolls, which apparently equals 280 lbs. That is what I am imagining Peeta hefting with ease. That…is not inconsiderable.

Your first memories are of your mother and flour, the two of you laughing and covered in white powder, warm in the red glow of the ovens. You cling to this memory when things get hard, later, after the sickness has taken your mother and the reality of the world you live in have made your kitchen less of a playground and more of a prison. At least, you think to yourself, you have the memories. The memories are the one thing the Capitol can’t take from you.

 *

 You’re the baker’s son, and you inherit the Bakery. You live in the back room with your father, the Sheriff, but your schedules usually don’t overlap much, only seeing each other for passing moments when one of you retires to the back room. You have to rise early to bake the bread for breakfast, while your father is usually up late patrolling, making sure that no one breaches the perimeter of Beacon, making sure that the petty troublemakers don’t escalate, making sure the starving thieves and pickpockets are given a piece of stale bread and turned away, rather than beaten. There’s never enough food out here, not this far from the Capitol. The hunger is a constant companion to nearly everyone in Beacon. As the 12th District, you get the bare minimum of what it takes to survive, and even then most days it’s up to luck if you wake up in the morning.

 Being the Baker means that you nearly always have some food, though, and your house is much warmer than the others from the heat of the ovens. Of course, that isn’t such a blessing in the summer months, but of the two, the winter is more deadly by far. Despite your huge coalmines, the citizens of Beacon get none of their spoils, left with nothing but frostbite and a constant coating of soot for your toil. You frown, a familiar bitterness welling up as you think of the injustice around you. You take out your frustrations in the bakery, shouldering the huge sacks of flour two at a time with a soft grunt. You barely even notice the weight anymore, used to it from years and years and thousands of repetitions—you’ve been helping your mother lift and carry since you were a toddler, taking on more and more as she weakened and wasted away.

 You do all of the baking now, but you don’t mind, it reminds you of the good times with your mom. Stopping in front of the huge ovens, you slide in two racks of dough you had prepared the night before, catching the side of your hand on the hot metal. Years of experience let you calmly move your hand away without dropping the pan, ignoring the burning throb of your hand. Once the dough is safely in place, you withdraw your hands from the oven and go to the front of the store to hold a jar of jam to the injury. The softest lights of dawn are only just appearing in the sky, so you are the only one in the Bakery. In an hour or so your brother, Scott, will come over and watch the front of the store while you bake. Scott and his mother, Melissa McCall, live next door—Melissa is Beacon’s Nurse, her Clinic right beside your Bakery. Right around the same time your mother died, Scott’s father left his family to try his luck at being a Peacekeeper in the Capitol. Both broken-hearted and fearing for the future, your father and Mrs. McCall decided to pool their resources to raise their two boys, and were quietly married. Scott was 8 at the time, you 9, and the transition from best friends to brothers was as easy as breathing. You know just how lucky you are to have the wonderful family that you do, and you knows how easily it could all be ripped away. Shaking your head to clear the morbid thoughts, you turn and retreat into the familiar warmth of your kitchen.

 As predicted, Scott bounds into the Bakery just under an hour later, all floppy dark hair and puppyish enthusiasm. You were just finishing kneading the last lump of dough to go in the ovens for the morning, hands covered in flour and yeast. You rinse your hands in the pail you’d brought in from the creek that morning, the cold water feeling good against your oven-baked skin. You grin at Scott’s cheerful chatter, ruffling his hair as he bounds past you to snatch a sticky bun from the cooling rack. He is pure and happy and the best thing in your world, you would burn the Districts to the ground to keep him safe and unspoiled. He is a creature made of love, and he gives it freely and unreservedly, unrepentantly. You don’t know how a world as cruel as yours produced him, but you love him all the more fiercely for his sheer improbability. He is currently enamored of the Mayor’s daughter—something that you’ve told him time and time again will only end in pain if he isn’t very cautious. He isn’t, though—cautious. Not with his heart or his shows of affection, so you try your best to act as the middleman for him, to try and minimize the fallout.

 The Mayor is not a kind man by nature, though that could be said of nearly anyone in the lower Districts, so used to fighting and scrapping to survive that you’ve nearly forgotten kindness. He is hard, but not unfair, which is the most you can say of nearly anyone here. His wife is harder than he is, a woman made of iron and just as hard and jagged. His sister is like the dogs that occasionally wander into town, lips pulled back from jagged teeth in an imitation smile, tongues lolling out of their mouths, sickly, vicious and mad. His father is one of the thin foxes that prowls, nearly unseen, at the edges of the fence separating Beacon from the wild around them, yellow eyes flashing as he waits for his opportunity to dart in and steal a chicken or a cat, pointy teeth darkened with blood. The Mayor’s daughter has steel in her spine—same as anyone who manages to survive in the outlying Districts—but also a sweet smile. You haven’t spoken to her directly, but you’ve heard that she hunts in the woods with a bow and arrow and gives the meat to families who would otherwise starve. You have no doubt that she is just as lethal as anyone in her family, but you hope, for Scott’s sake, that she is just as young and in love as he is.

You leave the Bakery in Scott’s capable hands and make your way towards the billowing, omnipresent black clouds that mark the entrances of the mines. The house closest to the mines, smoke-blackened and leaning, is the last remaining structure of what used to be a sprawling complex of family homes. When you were just a boy, just before your mother succumbed to the long-creeping illness that had been the fourth member of your family since almost as long as you could remember, there was an accident in the mines. The Mayor at the time—a woman with long, brown hair and large, warm hands—was overseeing the opening of a new tunnel, down there mostly for ceremonial purposes, shoveling the first load of dirt because she was the Mayor of District 12, as she was fond of saying, dirt, coal, and all. Something went wrong, something that was never identified or really investigated, much to your father’s displeasure, and she and her husband, who worked in the coal mine, were lost in a cave in—a high, shuddering scream of beams giving way followed by the deep, sick boom of thousands of tons of earth collapsing in, taking back its own. They left behind two daughters and a son, none of them old enough to run the town, along with the Mayor’s brother—a misanthropic recluse who hadn’t lifted his head out of his cups since the Games of his youth. This left the door wide open for the Argents to assume the Mayorhood while the bereaved young Hales moved into the coal-black shack right outside of the monster that swallowed their parents.

 You took bread to them—big, fat loaves you’d baked with your own hands, the ends a little bit lumpy and uneven, the crust thick and burnt. Your mother was laid up in bed and you were still learning, but you baked it anyway and snuck out, laying a kiss on your mother’s brow, running across town in the soft pre-dawn light to the yawning mouth of the mines. You shuddered just looking at it but approached anyway, knocking softly but insistently on the rough wooden door of their new home. The eldest girl, Laura, answered the door with dark, suspicious eyes, lips and shoulders trembling. You held out one of the loaves, your small hand barely able to keep a hold on it, and you saw her crack under the small kindness, felt the wetness of her tears as she bent to embrace you. You hugged her back the best you could with your hands full of bread, patting her back like your mother did for you. She sniffled against your shoulder and pulled you inside, pushing you gently towards the only bed in the room. Her siblings, Derek and Cora, sat, shoulders pressed together, eyes hollow. You approached slowly, laid a loaf of bread on each of their laps and backed away, not knowing their grief— _not yet, soon, but not now_ —but knowing enough. Cora— _the same age as you,_ you realized, recognizing the shadow in her eyes with a sick sense of foreboding—came back to herself with a start, picking up the bread and ripping into it like she was starving. Her motion jostled her brother back into wakefulness and his eyes, pale and sad, found yours. You held his gaze until he blinked and looked away, then you sat and talked quietly to Laura about anything that had nothing to do with anything until the sun was turning the sky pink and you had to run back to the Bakery.

 Ever since then you’ve been a frequent visitor to the Hales’ shack, often bringing slightly stale bread or treats, one of the few people in town that the siblings willingly interact with. Laura greets you warmly, as usual, and you slip a ginger cookie into her palm. Cora’s peanut butter biscuit goes to Laura too, for whenever she gets back from skulking about the black market. Derek you find in the backyard, shirtless and chopping firewood.

              “Ho there, strongman,” you call, grinning at the blush that colors the tips of Derek’s ears.

             “You’re far stronger than me, Stiles,” he grumbles, turning to look at you, “don’t give me that.”

             “Oh, but I’m not half as pretty,” you call back, fluttering your eyelashes at him jokingly. He punches your shoulder halfheartedly but laughs, fingertips brushing against yours and staying there. You fight down a blush—knowing that it looks ruddy and unattractive on you—and clear your throat, holding out a cinnamon roll to him. He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, soft and unbearably fond and you turn to hide your blotchy, red, face, picking up the ax that he had discarded. Shooing him away from the stump, you set up a log and swing, easily cutting it in half. The motion is soothing and instinctual to you—your ovens run on firewood, after all, and you’ve been chopping wood since you could hold an ax.

 Derek leans back against the wall of his shack and watches you work in silence for a few minutes, a pensive look on his face. You stop swinging and look back at him, your eyes catch and hold, seeing each other clearly—beneath the soot and sweat and flour, beneath everything this world has coated you in—as you always have. Setting the ax down, you sit on the chopping stump and just wait, knowing that Derek will speak in his own time, and that no good comes of rushing him. Your hard-learned patience is soon rewarded.

              “Have you ever thought about just leaving?”

             “Yes,” you answer instantly, because who wouldn’t think about leaving when their life is like yours? “But I could never, not really. I’ve got my dad, and Scott.”

             “They could come too,” Derek rebuts, quietly, like he’s thought about this— _this_ , specifically, running away with _you_.

             “They’d catch us,” you answer, just as quietly, wishing what you were saying wasn’t the truth, “they always catch us.”

 You’re quiet then, for a while, letting the breeze bring you the scents of woods and water, of places you’ll never see. You sit, watching the sun crest over the mines, letting its brightness white out the ugly black slash that is the maw of the mountain, if only for a moment. You wait as long as you can, but eventually you know that you have to go back to the Bakery, out of the light and back into the ash and the flour.

 You stop next to Derek—the two of you are of a height, but his light eyes are downcast, refusing to look at you. You rest your forehead against his, noses brushing. You feel the soft pressure of his breath on your cheek and you are comforted for a moment, knowing that Derek is safe—in this moment, at least. You exhale, feeling his eyelashes flutter. You draw back and slip inside, out the door and back to town before you can convince yourself to stay any longer. You don’t look back.

 *

 The day dawns, just like any other. You’re up early, but this time you’re not alone. Scott, pale and shaking, has been holding your hand all night, falling briefly into fitful slumber only to wake with a choked-back yell, hair slicked back with sweat. Today is the Reaping, the day on which two kids from each District are chosen to die. _Not that dying, in and of itself, is anything unusual here, even for a child,_ you muse to yourself. But this is a cruel death, one for sport and for show, for the debasement of people already so debased that any death but this one would be an escape. Your anger is as useless as Scott’s tears, though, so you hide it away deep inside of you where the rest of your anger lives. You stroke your brother’s hair and sing snatches of lullabies you dimly remember your mother singing to you, holding him close like you could fold him into you—him, just one year younger than you and almost as tall, him, unashamed to be crying in your lap, your precious little brother. You are both quiet when your parents come in, pale and worried, to hug you both and offer what little reassurance there can be for those facing a firing squad.

 You dress in the closest you have to finery—shirts still more white than grey from soot and pants that are only frayed at the hems—hating the pageantry but loathing even more the thought of the pity from the Capitol if you turned up to the Reaping in your battered work clothes. You pull Scott away from your parents gently, hearing the booming from the square that marks your freedom ticking down. You kiss them both, saying nothing, knowing that no goodbye could be kind, and any false hope from you could prove fatal for them. Scott’s hand held tightly in yours, you join the solemn procession of your agemates towards the center of town, stopping only briefly to have your finger pricked and identity verified. At the edge of the crowd of seventeen-year-olds you stop, knowing that you can’t go any further, but unwilling to let Scott go. He smiles at you and lets go of your hand, uses it to rub your shaved head in an imitation of the tousle you give his mop of hair when you see him. Your throat closes up and you step backwards, turning away before he can see your eyes well up with tears.

 The ubiquitous Capitol propaganda film starts playing and you use it to tamp down on your sadness and fear and stoke the coals of anger that lie smoldering somewhere beneath your sternum. This is no time for despair. This is a time for rage.

              “Man, I love that video!” The obnoxious, nasal, voice of Finstock, the escort from the Capitol, crashes over the square with a squeal of static from the ancient sound system. “Cripes,” he says, wincing and sticking a gaudily manicured finger into his ear, “you folks really oughtta get that thing fixed!” Dead silence followed, charged with enough resentment that even this caricature of a man seemed to feel it. He grinds his teeth, eyes flicking back and forth as he moved towards the glass bowls with all of your names in it. “Well, alright, ladies first! Who’ve we got here…Agent? No, Argent—Allison Argent?”

 When Allison’s name is called, you clench your hands so hard your work-ragged fingernails bite bloody crescents into your palms. You start to shake. You are, for a moment, horribly, selfishly, glad that Scott is a boy and cannot volunteer for Allison.

 You catch her eyes as she makes her way through the crowd of other girls—safe girls—and to the stage. Her eyes are fever-bright, bright as a doe lying on the forest floor with an arrow in her breast, mere moments from having her throat cut. It is a ruinous, panicked brightness. It makes her dangerous. _Good,_ you think, savagely, _let her be dangerous._ Why shouldn’t Allison be the one to win? She is a master marksman and utterly ruthless when the opportunity comes for it. She could win. She has a chance. The odds, as ever, are not in favor—Allison is 18 this year, her last eligible year, so close to being able to walk away, so close to having a future free of this particular peril—but Allison could turn them. You believe this, _fiercely_ , you feel as though you could crumble at any moment and the sheer force of your belief is keeping you together. You don’t even know Allison—you don’t have to. You know that she is not cruel, you know that she has people that love her, and she is one of you—that is enough to grant her your protective fury. Allison squares her shoulders and marches up to the stage with steel in her spine and murder in her eyes. You are so proud of her.

 Your eyes then find Scott, one row ahead of you, grouped with the other 16-year-olds. He, of course, looks absolutely stricken—his normally warm complexion gone pale and ashen with dread. The boys next to him have sturdy grips on his arms, which you are quietly grateful for. You know your brother, and his first instinct was likely to charge the stage and demand they let Allison go. You’re still looking at Scott when they call the male tribute’s name. Your mind goes blank, you feel totally numb. You can’t process what you just heard—it’s echoing in your mind, but you can’t, won’t, don’t want to understand it. _“Scott McCall”_ It hits you like a bullet, you stagger back, disbelieving. Scott himself looks vacant, eyes dead as if in preparation for the Games to come. You breathe—heavily, painfully; panting in terror of losing him, _your brother_. You realize what you have to do and you straighten, heartbeat evening out. You are suddenly, horribly, selfishly glad that you are a boy and can volunteer for Scott.

 You ignore both your brother’s screams and the ringing silence of the square after your unprecedented exclamation and start shouldering your way through the crowd of other 17-year-olds around you and into the center aisle. Once out of the crush, you take a deep breath, clench your jaw, and take measured, even steps towards the stage, purposefully not thinking about the fact that you are literally moving one step closer to your death every time you pick up your feet. You don’t think about the look that must be on your dad’s face. You don’t think about Derek. You pin your eyes on Allison, and just walk.

 The silence lasts until you’ve climbed onto the stage and taken your place on the other side of Finstock. You look at him pointedly and clear your throat, more than ready for all of this to be over with.

             “RIGHT, THEN!” He booms out, overenthusiastic as always. His bright red satin shorts swish as he shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “A volunteer from District 12, I never thought I’d see the day!” He claps his hands like a toddler. You feel sick, swallowing convulsively. “What’s your name, son?”

             “Stiles Stilinski,” The fact that you manage to get that out without biting your tongue off you count as a major victory.

             “Gesundheit!” The wax doll of a man smiles widely at his own witticism, starched white cheeks creasing into deep, unnatural, furrows. You wonder briefly if people from the Capitol are actually made of plastic, and if so, how hard it would be to break them. “Well, maybe this year we can finally make a decent showing, huh?” He looks excitedly between you and Allison as though you are his very own racing hounds and he is delighted by the prospect of showing you off. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood. “Alright, kids, let’s get this show on the road!”

 You are shaking with a potent cocktail of adrenaline and rage and terror and you’re not sure that you can make it through the doors that just opened at the back of the stage. You blink, and when you open your eyes, you see one of your neighbors with their hand held high, three fingers pointing upwards. You blink again, and half of the crowd has their hands up. Another blink, and everyone in District 12 has their arms raised in your traditional hail and farewell. You blink once more and a tear slips down your face. You turn, sucking in a deep breath, and see Allison with what you bet is an identical mask of dread and grief on her face. You exhale, thinking about the fact that you may be able to barter two lives for your own, and that isn’t such a bad trade. You cross the few feet separating you and Allison and take her hand. No one is going to touch her while you live.

 *

You know what comes next, in theory, everyone does—the farewells are televised in some Districts; you have never been more thankful that your District was not one of them—but you were still completely unprepared for the reality of your dad and Scott bursting through the double doors looking like their hearts were being crushed. You’re enveloped in their arms before you can even draw a breath to greet them. They’re both yelling and crying, clutching you like they could stop the will of the Capitol with their body mass.

             “Stiles, how dare you volunteer for me—”

             “Son, that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done—”

             “I won’t let them take you, I’ll tell them to take me instead—”

             “Don’t you dare die out there, do you hear me?”

             “You have to come back, Stiles, how could I live knowing you sacrificed yourself for me?”

             “I love you so much, son.”

             “I’m so sorry, Stiles, if it weren’t for me—”

             “Your mother would be so mad at you—”

             “I love you, bro—”

             “—and so proud. Just like me.”

             “—just please come home again.”

 You hold them to you, the two most precious things in your life. You would kill for them, die for them in a heartbeat. But now, for them, you will try to live.

_“I love you. I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.”_ You whisper to them until your voice cracks with tears and then you all just sink down to the floor, a trembling mass. Soon—far too soon, a thousand years would be too soon to have your family ripped away from you—the door opens and one of the guards impassively muscles your brother and your father out of your arms and out the door. Scott is screaming and your dad just looks broken and you can’t summon even the strength to move from where the three of you had knelt together moments ago. You feel like you have glass in your lungs, lacerating your soft tissue every time you breathe. Tears roll down your face unchecked; you startle when the door opens again.

 It’s Derek, looking gaunt and hunted. You lurch to your feet and fall directly into his arms, all strength having left your body. You fist your hands in his rough shirt and hold him to you, sobbing into his neck.

_“Stiles—”_ he manages, voice coming out wrecked and shredded, as though he had been screaming. His arms are vice-tight around you, warm and sturdy as they always have been.

             “I’m so sorry, Der, but I couldn’t let them take Scott. I couldn’t let them have my brother. I couldn’t put him in there and watch the Arena take everything from him, and I know it’s selfish to make him watch me, but I couldn’t put him in there with Allison, I just couldn’t. But I’m just a baker, what am I going to do? I don’t know how to fight; I’m just hoping I can buy Allison enough time to take out some of the others. Oh god, Derek, I’m gonna die.”

             “No!” Derek wrenches back with a growl, eyes red from holding back tears. “You are _not_ going to die. You are strong, and smart, and sneaky. I don’t care if you hide in the trees or the mud the whole time, you will find a way to stay alive, _do you hear me?_ ”

You allow yourself another moment of shaking before you meet his eyes and give him the same promise you gave your family. “I’ll try.”

 He makes a low, wounded sound deep in his gut and drags you to him with a desperate strength, pressing his lips to yours like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Your hands immediately tangle in his dark hair, allowing yourself this one selfish moment, finally getting something you’d wanted for years.

The door banging open again separates you abruptly, the guards brushing aside your clinging hands like they were batting away flies. Before Derek is dragged out of sight, fighting every step, you yell to him “Look after my family!” and you see the understanding in his eyes as he is dragged away. You want to scream _“I love you”_ and run after him, but the words lodge in your throat and you swallow them on a sob. You sink to your knees and bow your head, arms wrapped around your ribs to try and stop you from shaking apart.

*

 You forgot until just this moment that the previous—and only—Victor from District 12 was Derek’s uncle, Peter. A video clip of Peter’s Reaping is shown every year with the other Games propaganda: a 16-year-old boy with dark, tousled hair and wide, pale eyes walking up to the podium, fists clenched. His voice cracked as he said his name into the microphone, barely out of puberty, not quite grown into the wiry length of his arms and legs. The footage then skips to his last fight in the Arena, his hands are empty, weapons long since lost or abandoned, body thin and shaking from terror and malnutrition. His opponent is cocky, assured of his victory. He comes in close, leaves himself wide open. Peter lunges forward, uses his last—his only—weapon, and rips the boy’s throat out with his teeth. After, they called him “the Wolf” in the Capitol, snidely, like he was a lapdog that had nipped a guest at dinner. They branded him as vicious and brutish, like a beast. They forgot or ignored the fact that it was cunning and subtlety that kept him alive until the end—immortalizing only the last, desperate, salvo of a boy who had to be as an animal to survive. The boy that came back to Beacon always had something of the animal in him after that. He kept a careful distance from his family and from the rest of the town, preferring solitude and the oblivion of drink. No one begrudged him that. But as time went on the town started treating him as more of a ghost than a man. Even when his family was killed the Hale children stayed away from his lonely manor in Victor’s Village, unsure of whether their uncle would recognize or welcome them.

 Looking at him now, for the first time, you understand their concern. Farewells over, you and Allison were shoved onto a train, sat at a table, and told to eat your fill. All of the food laid out is foreign to you—rich, sumptuous, extravagant confections that you have no idea how to even go about eating. Peter is seated across from you, so you leave the food be for a moment and study him. He doesn’t sit so much as sprawl, draped across his chair like a coat carelessly shed by its owner. His head lolls back as he pours some clear, harsh-smelling drink down his throat, eyes locked blearily on some point in the distance.

              “So, Peter,” You clear your throat, unable to take the silence, unable to shake the feeling of _lambs to the slaughter_ and needing to bury it with _something, anything_ , “Do you have any tips for us?”

             “Tips?” His voice is rough with disuse. His eyes focus on you for the first time and you see so much anger in them you almost expect the next words he spits to burn like acid. “Ah, yes, as your Mentor. Here’s one for you— _try not to die_.”

 Allison recoils as if she really were burnt. But you look at the man in front of you and remember the pale eyes of the boy whose voice cracked. No matter how he snarls and spits at you, you can’t hate him. How could you hate him when you could so easily be him? Your lips quirk up a little, despite yourself—his sharp tongue and Hale-light eyes remind you of Cora.

             “Well, you _are_ the expert, but I was hoping for something a little more specific than that.”

Peter blinks rapidly, as if he had been doused with cold water. Allison turns and stares at you with furrowed brows like she can’t figure out what’s wrong with you. You sigh, suddenly exhausted, and push back from the table.

              “Listen—I promised my family that I’d try to survive the Games, and I intend to keep that promise. If that means that I have to make nice with a surly, drunken old man, you’re goddamn sure that’s what I’m going to do. So put on your teacher’s cap tomorrow, or I’m going to be the bane of your fucking existence for the rest of my very short life.”

 With that, you turn on your heel and stride out of the room, intent only on finding a place to sleep and break down in private.

*

 The rest of the train ride passes in a blur of sarcasm and haphazard guerilla-tactics training. Peter has dark circles under his eyes, but he looks clearer and more present than you’ve ever seen him. He alternates between eyeing you with a sort of manic glee and throwing insults and steak knives at you. Finstock is horrified in a way that only a Capitol drone could be, (shrieking “That is MAHOGANY, you ANIMALS!” when you ducked behind a table to avoid a fork aimed at your head,) and Allison is withdrawn and standoffish. You aren’t hurt by it; you know that she’s trying not to befriend you—trying to avoid getting attached to you, because within a month she will be forced to kill you. You have no such problems—you came into this attached to her by virtue of Scott, and as long as Allison remains alive you have no illusions about your survival. So you focus on Peter and his projectiles and don’t breach the careful distance that she keeps from you.

 Your arrival in the Capitol is just as jarring and infuriating as you anticipated. Everything is a blur—flashing lights and noise and people painted every color of the rainbow, clothes more like plumage and every one of them preening to match. For all that you are constantly surrounded by people you feel intensely alone—Allison is more aloof than ever, Peter is pickling somewhere at the bottom of a bottle, Finstock is incoherently ecstatic, and all of the other Tributes eye you like a steak. The one person that you feel comfortable around is your stylist, Deaton. He wears understated, simple clothing and bears none of the artificial cosmetic additions that people in the Capitol favor. His dark eyes are sad when he looks at you, and he doesn’t say “congratulations”, instead he frowns, says that he’s sorry. He shows you his plans for your outfit and you are both impressed and comforted. Instead of the tacky miner outfit 12’s Tributes are usually put in, Deaton’s design is sleek and black—coal black.

              “District 12 is always underestimated—rocks and picks and pinstripes. I want to use this to remind everyone that the only thing that coal needs to ignite…is a spark.”

Deaton is the only one who’s looked you in the eye since you got off of the train in the Capitol, and you trust him. You trust him when he comes up to you and Allison in your chariot before the Parade of Tributes with a match. You trust him as he sets the cowl draped around your neck and throat on fire. But you only start to believe him when you see yourself on one of the huge, floating monitors around the parade grounds—you are, literally, incendiary. You take Allison’s hand—ignore her flinch and look of surprise—and look at the ocean of straw dolls, the people with paper skin and corn silk hair, that surround you and think _I will burn this to the ground_.

 *

 Training is every bit as much of a pony show as you expected. You’re eyed like cattle in a pen, the Gamemakers and Sponsors above waiting to brand you and send you to slaughter. You try to keep to the fringes, focusing on the survival techniques. Most of the Tributes die either in the first few seconds, or because of environmental factors—you’ve watched the Games every year, always compiling in the back of your mind a list of mistakes you refuse to make if you were ever put in their shoes. You look down at the sturdy, thick-soled boots on your feet right now and think that people in your District would kill for these boots. That you will kill in these boots. You turn back to your plants.

 Allison mostly hangs around the archery targets, occasionally prowling around the room like a leopardess. On one such circuit she slows by you and whispers _“Do something to impress them or you’ll be dead before you even get to the Arena,”_ in your ear before gliding away. You sort plants for a few more minutes— _poisonous, poisonous, poisonous, they’re all fucking poisonous_ —before making your way over to the combat practice area. You eye the axes, but decide to keep some cards close to your chest, and head instead for a cluster of weights, the largest as big around as a tree stump. You grab the handle on top and roll it around a bit to test the weight. Then you lunge forward, dragging the weight behind you, and nonchalantly heft it over your shoulder, sending it sailing down the corridor and into the chest of a practice dummy. You pointedly don’t look at Allison when you turn and face the other Tributes, but you see her smirk out of the corner of your eye anyway.

 The other Tributes are the normal, horrifying mixture of purebred inner-District killers and petrified, emaciated, children from the outer Districts. One and Two’s Tributes are glittering, beautiful murderers, and you track their every move within your eyesight. The female Tribute from 3— _Braeden_ , you remember she said with a toothy smile before throwing a knife right between a dummy’s eyes—is definitely high on your list of dangerous people, while the other one from 3, Matt, just creeps you out. _4’s two look like fish out of water_ , you think to yourself, smirking at the lame pun. The boy from 5, Isaac, sticks to the survival-training equipment even more than you do, so you catch snippets of his conversations with the girl from his District—Kira. You make a mental note not to worry about them immediately. The kids from 6 are scrawny and pasty; you don’t think they’ll last long enough to be a problem. 7, 8, 9, and 10 are mostly unremarkable, but you keep your eyes open, because any one of them could get a lucky shot and kill you. The Tributes from 11 are wildly juxtaposed: a tall, hulking, bear of a boy and a short, frail, wisp of a girl. You take to Erica, the girl, instantly, despite your better sense warning you off. You try to subtly show her little kindnesses in the training area but, judging by the sharp, reprimanding glances Allison throws you, you mustn’t have been subtle enough.

 *

 Sitting together with all of the other Tributes waiting to be evaluated by the Gamemakers would be nerve-wracking if you weren’t so pissed off about it. The low-simmering anger that’s sat in your belly since the Reaping— _since your mother died and you learned just how disposable you all are,_ whispers the brutally honest little voice in the back of your head—has come to a roiling boil. You’re tired and strung out and heart-sick and you _hate_ them, all of them who dare to judge your worth on some imaginary metric that’s rigged no matter which way you slice it. Time ticks down without you noticing, your head jerks up when you hear your name over the loudspeaker. You glance back to Allison, all alone, knuckles stark white from how hard she’s gripping the metal bench beneath her. You give her a lopsided grin and a soft “Everything’s going to be okay,” even though your eyes and hers both say _liar liar liar_. You walk away before she can answer—cowardice or mercy, you’re not sure.

 Inside the training room you calm, paradoxically reassured by the fact that no one is paying the least bit of attention to you, knowing that in the end, you will hit them all the harder for their obliviousness. You take several smooth, plastic dummies over to the camouflage station and start mixing your paints. A vibrant, reddish, strawberry blonde on top of pale peach, sharp brown irises and cold black pupils, harsh red lips. You write her name on the chest of the dummy with a flourish and move onto the next. A light gold that almost looks platinum in the sun, blue eyes that somehow seem snakelike, and full lips in a cruel smirk. Bold brushstrokes paint his name on the dummy and you step back to check your work. Satisfied, you carry them back to the target range, stringing them up at the maximum distance from the throw line. Returning to the row of weapons, you square your shoulders and call up to the gallery.

              “Stiles Stilinski, District Twelve.”

 Having caught their attention, you turn, a spear in your hand. You lift it into position above your shoulder and, with a deep breath, tense all of the muscles across your back and arms, calling to bear the strength forged from lifting and chopping and kneading and release it all in one powerful burst, sending the spear hurtling down the range and punching through the chest of the first dummy. You grab a second spear, and, within seconds, it hangs buried like its predecessor in the second dummy. You turn, eyes pinned on the jury above you, and bow, a teeth-baring smile stretching eerily wide across your face.

              “ _Thank you_ _for your consideration.”_

Peter roars with laughter when you tell him afterwards, Finstock is aghast and Allison rolls her eyes. You consider it a win no matter what your score turns out to be. The scores are typical, 8-10 for all of the Careers, Isaac from Five gets a 5, little Erica manages a 7 and you’re happy for her. Then it’s your turn, and the air around you is charged with anticipation. When the announcer says “11” Finstock erupts into loud, raucous cheering and nearly jumps out of his sequined jersey. Allison looks pleased with her 8 and accepts congratulations from all of you. You rise to head for bed and Peter follows you into the hallway. When you get to your room, he claps you on the shoulder and when you look up there’s a look that’s equal parts pride and blood-thirst in his eyes.

              “They know now to fear you. We’re going to make them regret ever bringing you here.”

 Your answering smile is every bit as wolfish as his.

 *

 Jennifer Blake is, you know, the most popular talk show host in the Capitol. She’s gregarious and charismatic, and she is the best shot any of you have for winning over Sponsors before the Games. Seeing her on monitors, though, did not properly prepare you for the painfully fluorescent shade of blue that her hair is currently. You focus on that to block out the other Tributes’ interviews—knowing that if you listen, your anger will cloud your judgment and you won’t come across as genuine as you need to win people over. You start naming all the shades of blue you can think of in your head to pass time.

_“Azure, cerulean, sapphire, robin’s egg…”_

 You watch the pretty girl from Two, Heather, flutter her eyelashes and cross her legs demurely. Her lips part and you shut your eyes.

_“Navy, aqua, turquoise, cornflower…”_

Allison nudges you when Erica goes out on stage, frizzy blonde hair a halo around her head and her thin shoulders shaking. You turn your back entirely, because if you listen— _she’s twelve years old, she will never even get to be a teenager; she’s her parents’ only child, they are weeping as they watch this; she is fragile and tiny and bound to die_ —if you watch her, you won’t be able to control yourself.

_“Periwinkle, indigo, cyan, midnight…”_

There is a rustle of skirts next to you as Allison goes onstage. You watch her, posture rigidly perfect, militaristically, as if someone was watching that would scold her for it. She answers every question stiffly, impersonal as a marionette. You know that she’s scared, but the idiots in the audience will think that she’s cold, snobby. She doesn’t do herself any favors when Jennifer asks her about her life in 12 and she responds with rote recitation of her duties as the Mayor’s Daughter, rather than stories of friends or loved ones. In her awkwardness she paints herself as distant and unapproachable, and you know that what the Sponsors love more than anything is a sob story. They want to pity the Tributes—need to. They want to feel important and charitable, helping the poor and needy children. Stony-faced, self-sufficient girls from the outer districts will not get their support.

But you will. You rise as Allison passes you and stride onto the stage, a lopsided grin splitting your face. You wave to the crowd, making sure to look eager, yet bashful. You shake Jennifer’s hand, cupping hers in both of yours, and sit poised on the edge of your seat, leaning attentively towards her.

             “Mr. Stilinski, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

             “Stiles, please, or I’ll think you’re talking to my dad,” You rebut with a winning smile, twiddling your thumbs self-consciously.

             “Of course, Stiles,” Her eyes are warm and her smile genuine, “You have made history in District 12, and I know that I’m not just speaking for myself when I say that you volunteering at the Reaping was one of the most shocking things I’ve ever seen. Can you tell us a little about that?”

             “Yeah, Scott—the boy that was called—is my little brother. I didn’t really mean to make history, but they called his name and there was nothing else I could do.”

             “Oh my gosh, that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard!”

             “Scott’s the greatest—I run the Bakery back home and he helps out in the front. His puppy-dog eyes always manage to convince everyone to buy more than they planned, but no one can stay mad at him, and he brightens everybody’s day. He’s incredibly gentle and kindhearted, a little ball of happiness. Everyone loves him.”

             “I’m crying,” She actually is, you see her eyes welling up. She turns to the audience, “Is anyone else crying?” They roar in agreement.

             “Yeah,” You continue, “I mean, I just couldn’t let him go to the Games, especially after Allison—” You cut yourself off, cover your mouth with your hand dramatically. Jennifer eats it up.

             “What? What about Allison?”

             “Well…” You hesitate, scrub your hand through your buzzed hair, “They asked me not to tell anybody, I’ve said too much already.”

             “Stiles!” Jennifer scolds, “You can’t leave us all hanging like that!”

             You look at a camera and grimace apologetically. “Sorry, bro, looks like the cat’s out of the bag.” You turn back to Jennifer and take a deep breath. “My brother and Allison are actually engaged.”

             The studio erupts into shouts and Jennifer rocks back in her chair, a hand flying up to cover her heart. “My goodness! I can’t believe it—our very own Allison Argent?”

             “Yeah, they’ve been in love for a long time and kept it secret—I can’t tell you how many rendezvous I’ve had to facilitate,” You pause here to wrinkle your nose in mock distaste, as the audience and Jennifer giggle. “They were just about to officially announce their engagement right after the Reaping, but, well…”

             “How tragic!”

             “I would’ve volunteered for Scott anyway, no matter what, but when Allison’s name was called, I knew I had a chance to help protect the girl my brother loves. And I can’t regret taking that chance.” You give Jennifer a strained smile.

             “You truly are a hero, Stiles Stilinski. Thank you so much for being on the show, and good luck in the Games!”

 

You make your way off stage and are immediately pressed back into a wall with an arm against your throat.

              _“What the hell was that?”_ Allison hisses at you furiously.

 Peter yanks her back and pins her arms as you bend at the waist and cough a few times.

              “That was him saving your ass, _Miss Congeniality_ ,”

             “I am _not_ engaged to his brother!”

             “That doesn’t matter!” Peter releases Allison and throws his hands up in the air. “He just did something you utterly failed to—made you _likeable_.”

             “We’re not in a popularity contest, we’re in a cage match!”

             “And what’s going to help you in that cage match, stoicism or Sponsors?” Allison is petulantly silent, so Peter continues, “When you’re freezing, or dying of thirst, it’s going to be Sponsors that save your life, and if you don’t make them care about you, you’re dead. Stiles just did you a huge favor, so instead of choking him out, you should be thanking him.”

             “You don’t have to thank me,” you say quickly when Allison’s burning gaze swings to you.

 She doesn’t say another word, just stomps off past Finstock who shrinks back, his bald head shiny with sweat. You sigh and follow her back to the Tower at a more sedate pace, feeling suddenly exhausted. Unbidden, the phrase ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ pops into your mind and you chuckle darkly. _“I don’t have long to wait now.”_

*

 You have never been so terrified in your entire life. You’ve been scrubbed and examined and charted to within an inch of your life and then had a very large needle unceremoniously shoved into your arm and a tracker implanted under your skin, a thought that makes said skin crawl. You’re now in a room deep underground somewhere, accompanied by Deaton, who is tugging at your jacket ineffectually. Both of you know that in minutes no one will care if your clothes are mussed, but it gives you both something to concentrate on other than your impending death.

              “Stiles,” Deaton is, uncharacteristically, the one to break the silence. “I haven’t known you for very long, but I know that you are a good, kind person. You’re smart, and a survivor. My involvement with the Games means that I’m not allowed to bet on them, but if I could—I’d bet on you.”

 If your throat wasn’t already closed with terror, you’d be choked up right now. As it is, you step forward and hug him, needing to feel the warmth of a living, friendly person for what is very probably the last time.

  _“Ten seconds.”_ Booms the loudspeaker impassively.

 You’re trembling violently and can’t make yourself stop. You wrench yourself away from Deaton with difficulty and step up to the transparent tube that will whisk you to your doom. You hesitate at the opening of the lift, look over your shoulder.

 Deaton is smiling at you tremulously, dark eyes unfathomably sad. You exhale and steady yourself, thinking of how he apologized to you when you first met. He is your friend; you will be strong for him. You give him a smirk, small but real, and cop a jaunty salute.

  _“Five seconds.”_

 You step into the tube, shoulders tensing as you hear it slide shut behind you. You wave at Deaton as the lift starts upwards, only allowing your shaking hands to clench into fists when he’s out of eyeshot.

 *

 The moment the tube breaches the ground you are blind. You blink furiously, knowing that if you take too long to gather yourself you will be _dead_ and you need to stop panicking and _think, damnit!_ You hear a whimpering noise to your left and you turn, see the girl from 7 on the pedestal next to you. You spare a moment to be grateful that there is easier prey than you close by, and then another to feel awful about thinking that. You swallow thickly and pivot, making sure not to move your feet, and catch sight of everyone else spread out in a circle around the Cornucopia. That is, you are painfully aware, where the first bloodbath happens every year and you cast your eyes around searching for any other option. Scattered on the ground are backpacks and other marginally useful items—not as good as anything within the Cornucopia, of course, but they are within arms’ reach and you’ll make do.

 You jolt at the loud horn blare that marks the start of the Games, falling more than jumping down from your pedestal. You zigzag towards the tree line, scooping up a backpack and two other canisters, ducking behind people rushing forward and trying to make yourself as small as possible. You catch sight of Allison only once, running headlong at the Cornucopia and you despair, but her life is her own, and you’ve got to worry about yours right now. You’re noticed only once in your flight—beautiful, clever Lydia sends a knife flying at your face as you bend down to pick up another bag. You manage to bring your backpack up in time and block it, but don’t give her a chance to throw another, running full tilt into dense tree cover.

 You continue on into the forest for a good ways—at one point running straight into Isaac, who spooks like a deer and darts away—before you feel reasonably certain that you weren’t followed. The canon booms irregularly but often in those first few minutes, marking the carnage. You spot a thick tree branch on the ground and scoop it up, testing its weight in your hand. It has a good heft, you decide, and decent balance, so you begin whittling away a sharp point on one end with the knife that Lydia inadvertently gave you. You pick berries, leaves, and mushrooms along the way—staying well clear of anything that you aren’t 100% certain is safe. Eventually you feel your adrenaline starting to peter out and look for a tree to rest in for the night. You find a likely candidate quickly and shimmy up, tying yourself down to a thick upper branch where you’re reasonably sure you can’t be seen easily from the ground. You doze fitfully until Capitol theme song snaps you awake. The video montage for the dead is playing, and you squint into the sky, hoping that you won’t see Allison’s face. You don’t—though nearly half of the other Tributes are up there. You fall back into a light, troubled sleep after the music fades out, ghostly blue faces of the fallen Tributes floating through your dreams.

 *

 Dawn brings a new set of challenges—including, but not limited to, getting down from your treetop perch. You make it, swinging like a drunken monkey, and land with a light grunt, taking a moment to orient yourself in the dense foliage. Before you fell asleep you resolved to double back towards the cornucopia stealthily to reassess your situation and you make good on that now, in the light of day. You know that just running away will bore your audience, and make the Gamemakers introduce some fresh horror into the Arena, so you resolve to be as proactive as you can, short of suicidal stupidity.

 When you near the tree line you hunker down under a fallen tree, smearing mud across your pale cheeks and tracking the comings and goings of those who survived the initial massacre to claim the bounty of the Cornucopia. You watch the Careers mill about, occasionally peeling off in pairs to go foraging in the trees. They don’t worry about anyone approaching them, and they leave so predictably that within an hour you’ve watched Isaac sneak into the trove and leave with a backpack overflowing with supplies, without raising a single alarm. A plan begins to form in the back of your mind.

 Your opportunity comes when you see one of the most hapless and forgettable Tributes—Greenberg, you think his name was. He scored a _one_ , you didn’t even know that was _possible_ —attempts to slink up to the Cornucopia as Isaac did, except that he times it completely wrong, when all of the Careers are inside, sharpening their weapons. You almost feel bad for him as you silently rise to your knees, lifting and aiming your spear, but the thought of the multitude of more painful ways that the cold-blooded killers in there will take him apart steady your hand. In one powerful shove your projectile is flying, seconds later there is a sharp, surprised “Ah!” from Greenberg as your dart flies true. You step out of the tree line, feigning nonchalance, just as the Careers come pouring out of the Cornucopia and Greenberg’s body topples to the ground. The cannon sounds and you raise an eyebrow at Lydia, whose eyes are pinned unerringly on you.

             “You have a visitor.”

             “You don’t think we could have taken care of one little mouse squeaking around our cheese?” She tilts her head and smiles, as warm and inviting as a blizzard. You shrug, fighting down a smirk at the thought that a fox had already swiped some cheese right out from under her pretty button nose.

             “I know you could have, but I took it upon myself to do it for you.”

             “How sweet. Unfortunately for you, that philanthropy was rather misplaced, given that we’re going to kill you now.”

             “Again, you could, but I don’t think you will.”

             “And why on earth would you think that, little mouse?”

             “Because I’m your best shot at catching Allison before they let something nasty loose to flush her out. She practically lived in the forest in 12, she could stay out there forever with none of you finding her, which will mean more danger for everyone when the Gamemakers step in.”

             “Oh, right,” Jackson cuts in sarcastically, “because we really believe that you’re turning on her.”

             “I don’t care if you believe it. I just care that she dies.” You level him with your iciest, deadest stare. You see him flinch a little before he recovers—he is used to looking at anger and fear and confusion, but is unnerved by your apathy and disregard for your own life.

             “Fine.” Lydia regains control over the conversation with a sharp look that has Jackson turning back to the Cornucopia with his tail between his legs. “We leave to hunt Argent in the morning. You will come with us.”

You nod at her and return to the forest. You may have formed an alliance with those snakes, but spending any unnecessary time around them is just asking to get bitten.

 *

 The Careers do not travel quietly. They tromp through the forest like they own it, making no effort to cover their tracks or silence their approach. Their numbers and comparatively superior weaponry make them cocky, but you know that while they aren’t to be taken lightly, they aren’t nearly as indestructible as they think they are. All together there are seven of you—Jackson and Lydia from One, Danny and Heather from Two, and Matt and Braeden from Three, plus yourself. You know that any of them is looking for any excuse to kill you, so you stay quiet and as far away as you can while still remaining with the group. You make yourself useful finding food, and, true to your word, you spot Allison’s trail after only a few hours of searching. It takes you a further hour to trace it back to her, and once they catch sight of her dark hair through the trees the Careers take off, baying and snapping like hunting dogs. Allison runs, quick as a deer, and you nearly lose sight of her, but through sheer numbers her pursuers flush her into a clearing. Realizing her situation, you see her change course and head for a tall, sturdy tree whose lowest branches are too high to easily climb. She runs at it full tilt, making it a few steps up the trunk of the tree through inertia before managing to grab a branch and pull herself up. You think you may be able to follow her up, having used that maneuver a few times in the past, but you are almost certain that the Careers will not. To be sure, you run to the base of the tree and jump up, grabbing the lowest branch. You hang for a moment and then swing yourself, pulling down with your whole body weight on the thin branch. As expected, it begins to splinter. You pull again and the branch gives way, sending you sprawling to the ground just as the Careers converge into the meadow.

              “She’s treed herself!” Jackson crows, peering up into the leaves. He jumps up and grabs a branch like you did, but his heavily muscular body makes the tree limb break immediately, dropping him on his ass on the forest floor.

             “Oh for God’s sake,” Lydia rolls her eyes at her partner’s thunderous scowl and grinding teeth. “Heather, you have the bow—just shoot her down!”

 Heather steps forward with a dubious look on her face. She is clearly uncomfortable with the bow, arm shaking as she draws back an arrow. It misses wildly, as does the next. The third doesn’t even make it halfway up the tree and Lydia makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat. She turns to you.

              “You killed that boy with a spear earlier. Can you hit her?”

 The answer was probably ‘yes’, though the dense foliage and Allison’s agility would certainly be problematic. But all Lydia had seen was you hitting Greenberg from a short distance, and what she didn’t know could only help you in this case.

              “No,” You reply, false regret coloring your tone, “A spear made from anything in this forest would be too heavy, it’d never reach her up there.”

 The redhead makes a sharp ‘tsk’ noise and turns on her heel, pacing at the base of the tree. After a minute she stops, arms crossed decisively across her chest.

              “She’ll have to come down for food or water sometime. We will keep watch until she does, and then we’ll kill her.”

 Everyone seems to agree to this plan and sets about making camp, splitting up to gather wood, food, and water for the night. You are left to keep an eye on Allison, which suits you just fine. You wonder what she’s thinking—if she believes that you’ve turned on her. A small voice in your heart hopes not, but you couldn’t really blame her if she did. You push away any vestiges of regret and think, planning out your next moves, trying to figure out a way to get the both of you away from the Careers alive.

*  
  
The sun has set by the time everyone returns with provisions, and soon they’ve built a fire and curled up to sleep, leaving you dozing against a tree several paces away. Danny is on first watch and you allow yourself to drift, idly watching the smoke from the fire drift upwards and dissipate.

 The next time you open your eyes, the sky is the light, hazy color of pre-dawn and you sense someone approaching you. Raising your head you see Heather stop a few feet from you. She gestures over to the log that the group has been using as a lookout post and you nod, rolling your shoulders and rising to your feet. You make your way silently as Heather lies down near Danny, dropping off into easy slumber. Your eyes scan the clearing, noting the gentle rise and fall of the Careers’ breathing, and ensuring that you could still see the dark patch that is Allison up in the tree. You let your eyes scan upwards, the high branches of the trees above you now visible in the weak light. You stifle a yawn, eyes still wandering aimlessly when you make out an unusual shape in the branches. You squint, and then feel your heart pick up its pace when you recognize the curves as a Tracker Jacker nest. It’s actually quite close to where Allison has nested and you feel a shiver of unease at the thought of disturbing it. But you see no better option.

 You wait until you’re certain that everyone around you is sound asleep before you rise to your feet, hands already trembling at the thought of what you’re about to do. You lied to Lydia about not being able to throw a spear up into the trees—you have enough strength and control to hit a target far above your head. You have to; you’re betting Allison’s life on it. Your own, you muse, is probably forfeit either way. If you fail, you’ll wake the Careers and they’ll either kill you immediately or they won’t, but they’ll kill you eventually. If you succeed, the Tracker Jacker venom will probably do you in, but at least you’ll take some of these sons of bitches with you. You circle the clearing silently, searching for the best spot to throw from. Coming to a stop, you plant your feet and breathe for a minute, for what could be the last time. You shake your head and raise your weapon, mind made up. Up, up, it flies on your powerful shove, striking true at the thinnest part of the nest’s mooring to the branch, sending the whole thing careening down into the clearing right in the middle of the sleeping Careers. It’s almost poetic justice, you think to yourself, watching creations of the Capitol kill each other in a production by the Capitol. It’s only a moment before the insects are on you too; you are far, far too close to be able to run.

The stings burn like hot metal— _you’ve felt that before, the hiss and sizzle of your own skin in your ovens, the fire’s sharp rebuke for inattention_ —the venom feels like acid in your veins. Your vision instantly begins to swim and you fall to your knees, the ringing in your ears turning into screaming— _who’s screaming, are you screaming?_ —the more your body absorbs the poison. Everything becomes hazy and undefined; nothing is fully present in your mind except the pain. The physical agony comes and goes in waves like a cruel tide, but what truly tortures you are the visions.

_Mom, mom, mom, dressed in her white nightgown, eyes milky pale filmed over in death, arms reaching towards you but she crumbles to dust, fingertips to wrists to elbows falling like sand to the ground, stepping forward on disintegrating feet, crying as you fail to hold her together, Stiles, Stiles, why couldn’t you save me—_ her voice echoes in your ears louder than the screams.

_Dad, sitting alone at the big table made for a family, eyes red and cheeks sunken, staring into his glass like it's his only salvation, holding onto his bottle like it’s his only lifeline, he crumples in on himself, strong shoulders bowing under an impossible weight, one that you put there, Stiles, Stiles, why couldn’t you stay for me—_ his haunted whispers make you claw at your ears to block them.

_Derek, choking on black dust, smothered under the dirt that killed his family, clawing his way to you across miles and miles, clothes torn and bloody, soft voice wrecked and gentle eyes broken, he’s tearing himself apart to be with you, Stiles, Stiles, why did you leave me just like everyone else—_ your throat is vibrating from the force of your screams even though you can’t hear them over the sounds of your ghosts.

 You truly have no idea how long you lay in the dirt, convulsing, but eventually the pain dims and you become aware of your body again outside of your mind. The phantasms fade and silence rings in your ears. Your whole body aches and trembles, but you open your eyes, unwilling to lie in ignorance. The little girl from 11—Erica, your exhausted mind supplies belatedly—is sitting a few feet away watching you warily. There are plant leaves in her hands, and as you glance down at your body, you see the same leaves stuck to you in various places. You look back up at her—shoulders tight with anxiety, little hands fidgeting, but mouth set stubbornly—and manage to dredge up a weak smile from somewhere.

             “You really saved my bacon, huh? Thank you, Erica.”

 She hesitates, but finally speaks softly. “You weren’t really working with those other guys, you were trying to help your friend. I was watching the whole time, from the trees. I saw what you did. She got away safely.” She added on the last bit quickly as you strained to look up into the trees where Allison had been perched. You fall back with a sigh, relief making you slump. It wasn’t all for nothing.

              “Some of those guys are dead, too,” Erica continues, looking completely unperturbed at the thought of the dead Careers. “Both from Two, and the girl from Three. The others got stung, but managed to get away.” She shuffles closer to you and fiddles with a leaf. “These plants are good for removing the Jacker toxin. There are some nests in the trees in Eleven, so we’re taught how to deal with stings. I wasn’t sure if it’d work, though, because you had so many, and I had to wait ‘til the Jackers were gone.”

 You reach up slowly, taking care not to frighten her, and gently tousle her hair. “Well, they did. And thank goodness you were here, because otherwise I’d be just like those others.”

 She smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. It takes you a few minutes, but you manage to make it to your knees, and then your feet after a few false starts and near-falls. You try to take a step forward and your knee gives way, sending you toppling forward until strong little Erica darts in under your arm, acting as a crutch. You can see a hint of trepidation in her eyes as she smiles up at you and you feel your heart constrict at this brave, sweet, lion-hearted girl. The two of you limp out of the clearing, you stumbling and her staggering under your weight. It’s slow going, but by the time you get to the stream you’ve regained a bit of motor control and can support yourself against a tree while Erica washes the stings and changes your leaves.

              “So,” You begin, wincing as Erica yanks a stinger out of your arm, “How d’you feel about teaming up—and not like I did with the Careers, for real. I look out for you, you look out for me.”

 Her eyes flit up to yours and you see an uneasy mixture of nervousness and hope, how she’s exhausted and ill-suited for this. You are painfully reminded of Scott and exactly why you volunteered to prevent this for him. The fact that she’s here means that she didn’t have anyone willing to do that for her, but you’re with her now, and you will do anything in your power to help her.

              “Alright,” She says finally, shyly, “What do we do now?”

 You make a show of thinking, tapping your finger on your chin and pursing your lips and are rewarded by Erica’s soft giggles. It takes you a moment to run through possible courses of action in your mind, discarding the more dangerous ones and focus on making use of your friend’s small stature and climbing ability.

              “Well, those nasty Careers have gotten very comfortable in the Cornucopia. How about bringing the party to them?”

 Erica’s answering smile shows just as many teeth as yours. “I’ve always liked parties.”

*

 The more time you spend with Erica, the more you are reminded of Scott, a sensation which is both painful and sweet. The two of you sleep nestled together in the trees, her head lolling back against your shoulder. You noticed her flinch when the memorial for the dead Tributes began, so, remembering the night before the Reaping, you started softly singing her a lullaby as a distraction. She sniffled a few times but calmed quickly, dropping off into sleep. You wake her up halfway through the night for her turn as lookout, and then easily drop off yourself, lingering pain exacerbating your underlying exhaustion.

 The next few days you fall into a companionship with Erica that you recognize is unwise, but is inevitable for you. She is funny, and clever, and far too trusting, and you are petrified that something will happen to her if you let her out of your sights. You form a plan to draw the Careers out of their den in small numbers and pick them off from afar, using Erica’s whistle signals and familiarity with trees as a lookout and distraction, and your own strength as the weapon. It was far from a perfect plan, but at the very least it kept the target firmly on your back, and little Erica hidden in the treetops. You decide to send up a smoke signal as a lure, and then lie in wait, leaving Erica to survey the Careers’ progress from the treetops while you light the fire and wait to strike. You leave her—with great reluctance and dawdling, ultimately she shoves you away from where you’re hovering by her shoulder, muttering _“Worrywart,”_ mutinously under her breath but still smiling at you as you look back over your shoulder—and set off at as quick a jog as you can manage while still being somewhat subtle about your passage through the forest. You set up the fire and stoke it quickly, impatiently fanning the ember into a small blaze. The pyre belches dark smoke upwards, borne high by the wind, and you know it won’t be long before someone spots it. You stand, moving back into the tree line, when you hear something faintly in the distance. You are instantly on alert, all of your hackles risen, and you start running back to where you left Erica.

              “Stiles!”

 It’s her voice, shrill and frantic. You run faster, uncaring if anyone hears you.

  _“Stiles!”_

 You skid into a clearing, spear at the ready, only to see Erica come scrambling into it from the other side. Her hair is a pale cloud around her face, and her eyes are wide and terrified, and then achingly relieved when she sees that it’s you. She trips into your arms, clutching at you as she breathes shakily.

              “Someone found me,” She chokes out, still panting, “Adrian Harris, the boy from 6. He came out of nowhere, grabbed my ankle and pulled me out of the tree. I kicked him on the way down and ran, he was following me but I lost sight of him.”

              “It’s okay,” You say, trying for soothing, but probably missing by a mile given how shaken up you are yourself, “You were very brave, Erica.”

 Her breath hitches in a little sob and you turn, scanning the far edge of the clearing for the other Tribute. You know he hasn’t given up—Erica presents too big of a target, young and weak as she is, and you alone are not enough of a deterrent to protect her. You focus intently on the tree line, while Erica pulls herself together against your chest. You will have to move soon, you know, but you give her this time to recover first. No sooner have you thought that than Erica tenses, shoving you away from her. You wheel around, eyes landing on a weasel-faced boy with a cruel smirk, arm outstretched after having thrown something. You feel rage overtake you and you throw your spear harder and faster than you think you ever have before in your life. It has impaled him before he even realized it left your hand, and you savor his look of shock as he topples backwards, dead. The cannon booms and you turn back to Erica, thanks on your lips.

She is standing still, one small hand raised to her chest. You blink, uncomprehending, as the shapes before you resolve into a knife, buried to the hilt in Erica’s body. You must make some kind of strangled noise because she looks up at you and seems to realize that the dagger is there, her knees buckling beneath her. You lunge forwards and manage to catch her, lowering her gently to the ground, your arm cradling her thin shoulders. You try to look at the wound, but she brushes your fingers away, holds your big, callused hands in hers. Tears roll down your face completely unchecked and you garble out apologies in between sobs.

              “Shhhhhh,” She hushes you, voice soft and eyes bright. “It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay. But you have to win. Win, okay?”

             “I will,” You choke out, voice watery and low, “I’ll win for you, Erica.”

             “Good.” She smiles, gentle and fond, and asks, voice as soft as a sigh, “Will you sing for me again?”

 You take a deep breath and begin to sing the lullaby, stroking her hair and rocking her gently. You pretend not to notice the tears that drip silently down her cheeks as her eyes grow hazy and slip closed, each breath a little longer in coming. She is pale when she looks at you for the last time, but her smile is just as sweet as the first time you saw it. You see the light leave her eyes and your voice cracks, you drop your forehead to hers and try to remember how to breathe without her there beside you. Eventually, you pull back, laying her on the grass. Your eyes are drawn to a patch of wildflowers growing on the edge of the clearing and you stagger to your feet, wiping a hand across your face roughly. It takes six trips of your arms full of flowers, but by the time you drag yourself out of the clearing, Erica is resting on a bier of the flowers she loved and you have raised a salute that was half farewell and half call to arms.

 *

 You feel like you’re sleepwalking. Nothing seems real anymore. You don’t know which direction you’re going, or how far you’ve walked. It’s dark now—the sun set several hours ago, you faintly recall. There has been a persistent ringing in your ears, broken only by the shrieking whistles of the Mockingjays— _you failed her, you failed her, you were too slow and you got her killed, just like everyone you love—_ and your fist throbs dully from when you bashed your knuckles against a nearby oak to scare off the birds.

 The world, which up until that moment had been greyscale and unfocused, sharply resolves into red— _red as lips stretched malevolently across sharp teeth, red as blood on flower petals, red as the all-consuming rage_ —as you step out from a line of trees into the clearing where it all started. In front of you is the nasty boy from Three, the one that watched Allison with predatory eyes whenever he thought she wasn’t looking in the Training Room. Your hands are empty, but your arms are strong and you are on him before he can blink. You grip his throat with both hands, fingers tightening the more he struggles and scrabbles against you. His nails score lines down your arms, but you pay it no mind, head blank as the boy beneath you chokes. In a very distant part of your brain, it bothers you that you are so unbothered by this. You increase the pressure of your fingers again and feel a sick snap, his head lolls back immediately, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. You are startled back into awareness by the boom of the cannon and turn your head, eyes drawn to movement in your periphery.

Too slow—a dagger lodges itself in the meat of your thigh. You bite back a yelp and struggle to your feet, hoisting up the corpse in your hands as a shield and feeling the impact of several more knives in it. You take half-hobbling, half-leaping strides towards the cover of the trees, gritting your teeth against the pain. When you’re within reach of the trees, you throw the body in your hands at Lydia and score a direct hit, the mass of the dead boy knocking her down to the ground. Diving into the underbrush, you force yourself up past the streaking agony in your leg and sprint as far as you can. Eventually, you find yourself knee-deep in a river and can go no further. You scoop up great handfuls of mud and slather yourself from head to toe, dropping to the ground in a sheltered outcropping and pulling sand and rocks over your limbs as camouflage. Your vision is blurring, and you know that you’ve lost a lot of blood. You hope that you will still be alive in the morning, but if not, you think with grim satisfaction, none of them will get the pleasure of seeing you die.

*

Days pass in a haze of pain and fever, the wound in your leg festering despite your twice-daily trips to the water to wash it. You eat river plants and raw fish, tiny and silver, but steadily weaken nonetheless. If anyone were to find you at this point, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Slowly, quietly, you begin to despair.

*

_I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Scott. I’m sorry, Derek._

_I’m sorry, Erica._

 *

  _“Stiles!”_ The whisper is harsh, it drags you unwillingly back to consciousness.

You feel the rocks encasing you— _entombing you,_ the insidious whispers hiss—begin to shift and you resign yourself to this, wrung out with sickness and hurt. You lay back, unmoving, as cool fingers touch your cheek, wiping away mud and grit.

              “Stiles,” You think you hear something of hope in that voice, something of desperation, “Stiles, are you alive?”

 It takes you long moments to work up the energy to open your eyes, and when you do everything is fuzzy and bright.

              “Oh, thank god,” The voice is familiar to you, and you don’t resist when you are dragged from your hiding spot—though, truth be told, you couldn’t resist much of anything, anyway.

 In the shallows on the edge of the river, she—it is a she, you remember that much—washes all of the grime off of you, sucking in a breath when your wound is revealed. You lose track of things again for a while, and wake in a small cave, leg propped up on a rock and Allison— _Allison,_ of course it was Allison—staring at you, worry carving lines on her dirty face.

              “You look awful, Ally,” You manage to croak out, squinting up at her, “when was the last time you slept?”

 She lets out a high-pitched giggle that sounds just on the edge of hysteria.

              “You,” She pokes your wound sharply, looking vindicated at your hiss, “are in absolutely no position to say that to me, Stiles.”

             “Well, no one was counting on _me_ to be the good looks of this operation.”

             “Anyone who was counting on you to be the brains is equally disappointed, I can assure you.”

             “Ouch,” You feign clutching at your heart, “that really hurt, Allison.”

             “No, but this will.” She holds up a wicked-looking needle with a grimace. You choke down bile and turn your head away, thankfully passing out shortly after the first _prick-slide-tug_ of the needle in your leg.

 You come to some time later alone in the cave, everything shadowy and dim, clearly past dusk. The shuffling of feet and shifting of gravel herald Allison’s return, two midsized fish limp in her grasp. Your newly-sewn gash twinges when you move your leg the wrong way, but you feel more aware and clear-headed, so you’ll take what you can get. Allison settles herself near you and clears her throat.

              “While you were out of it, the Gamemakers announced that two Tributes could win the Games if they were both from the same District.”

             “Ah,” You turn to look at her, “so that’s why you came and found me.”

 She nods, turning the fish over in her hands. You try to imagine your wound’s impact on your ability to fight and wince. There’s no way you won’t be a total liability for her facing off against the last remaining Careers. It’s down to luck and their own overinflated egos that they haven’t found you already. You glance around the interior of your shelter to check for weaknesses, but your eye catches on an unnatural glint between two rocks. You quickly look away and don’t say anything to Allison, but you’d bet one of those fish that it’s a Gamemaker’s camera. You file that observation away for later.

              “That’s great news, then! My keen intellect combined with your beauty and brawn will take them all down in a flash.” You waggle your eyebrows at her, trying to lighten the mood.

 She lets out a very unladylike snort and promptly looks mortified, which makes the both of you burst out laughing. You’re intermittently seized by giggles throughout cooking and eating the fish, and all the way until Allison finally falls asleep, curled into a ball next to you. Gently, you rest a hand on her shoulder, unspeakably comforted by the simple warmth of another human next to you. You take a deep breath and settle in to keep watch. You refuse to let another friend die in front of you.

 *

 The next morning you snap out of your half-doze to the unnaturally loud, reverberating sound of a throat being cleared. Allison jerks awake next to you, fingers tight on her bow.

  _“Attention Tributes, there has been a delivery from the Capitol. There is something that each of you needs, desperately—something you need to survive. We have provided you with it. Come to the Cornucopia to retrieve it, if you can.”_

 Allison’s eyes are wide and her mouth is tight as she looks down at the sluggishly bleeding slash in your thigh. You clench your fists and try to push down the black rage roiling in your gut, try to speak calmly.

              “Allison, no. It’ll be a bloodbath—you sewed me up, I’ll be fine.”

             “That’s only a temporary solution and you know it!”

             “I’m not letting you go in there and get yourself killed for me!”

             “And what about me? Now there’s the chance that we can both go home—how do you think I could face Scott if I just let his brother die when I had the opportunity to save him?!”

             “I don’t think you’ll face Scott at all if you go in there, because you’ll be _dead_!”

Your chest is heaving and you see Allison biting her lip, the brown of her irises wavering and sheened with tears. You sigh, feeling a hundred years old, and open your arms to her, holding her tightly to your chest as her breath hitches. There is no good answer to this question, no right choice. No matter what, there’s no happy ending. It’s only minimizing your losses and deciding what you’re willing to sacrifice. You stroke her hair and swallow thickly, your throat tight with dread and gratitude for this kind, brave girl and her indomitable will. You won’t be able to convince her not to go, and you won’t be able to physically restrain her in your condition. There is only one route left open to you, and you feel perversely calm as you consider it.

              “Promise me,” You speak into her hair, voice rough, “promise me that you won’t just run off to the Cornucopia without telling me. At least…let me say goodbye.”

 She stiffens, shoulders quaking at the implication, but nods, her soft hair rasping against your cheek. You allow your eyes to close, body sagging in relief. Eventually, Allison draws back, face turned away from you, and leaves the cave with a half-mumbled excuse of finding food. You let her go without comment, knowing that she needs some space to come to grips with the idea of either dying herself, or being indirectly responsible for your death. You, however, don’t intend to let either come to pass. You’ve always been a proactive sort, you think to yourself wryly, as you scoot backwards towards the glint between the rocks in the back of the cave that you noticed earlier. As you thought, it is a tiny camera lens, no doubt streaming your every word and action in sweaty, dirty, high-definition back to the Capitol.

              “Peter,” You say in an undertone, unwilling to be overheard if Allison comes back early, “I’m about 98% sure that you’re watching this from wherever you are. Put down the cocktail and help me out here. Allison is hell-bent on going to that death trap at the Cornucopia, and I need your help to stop her. I need to knock her out for a few hours so that I can go instead, y’know, take the bull by the horns and all of that crap.”

 You give yourself one minute to panic about the thought of going head-to-head against a horde, all of who would love to see you dead. 60, 59, 58, 57…

              “Anyway,” You turn back to the camera, feeling slightly ridiculous about addressing a cave wall, “Do your thing, schmooze, and send me a sedative. Say that it’s for my leg, or something, but just please—help me save her.”

 You run out of things to say after that so you fall silent, moving back to your earlier spot at the mouth of the cave. You rest your head on your knees and wait for Allison to return. 

*

Night has fallen again when you begin to hear a soft, rhythmic beeping from outside the mouth of your cave. Allison pushes off from the wall she’d been sitting against and stalks outside, movements graceful and silent in the dark. She returns in moments, a silver parachute billowing out behind her.

              “Looks like Peter sent us something,” She murmurs, fingers already working at the clasps on the canister.

 You make an interested noise and peer over her shoulder, taking a small slip of paper when she hands it to you.

  _“One swallow for six hours of rest. Drink generously and stay alive. P”_

             “Why would he send us that?” Allison’s voice twangs with irritation.

             “I’ve heard that injuries heal more quickly while you’re asleep?” you hazard, trying to make up something to placate her, “And neither of us has gotten much sleep lately, being exhausted doesn’t help our odds of survival any.”

             “I guess,” her mouth is twisted in a moue, but she seems to accept your explanation.

 It is a bitter pill for her, you know, that Peter would send this, of all things. That this whole time she’s been struggling and accepted that she would have to do this without help and now, in the eleventh hour, when help finally comes, it seems like the anesthesia before euthanasia. Like he’s given up on you.

 While she’s distracted scowling at the canister you dart a glance over to the camera in the back of your cave and nod ever-so-slightly, hoping that Peter sees you. A moment later, you reach around her and snag the thermos, comforted by the sound of liquid sloshing within.

              “Well, he went to the trouble of sending it to us, so we may as well use it. We shouldn’t both be out at the same time, though, so we switch off nights? I’ll take it first, make sure Peter wasn’t trying to poison us.”

 You unscrew the top and sniff at the contents, pleased that it has no discernable aroma. Dipping a finger in and dropping it on your tongue confirms no particular taste, and you spare a moment to wonder if it isn’t poison after all. Putting that thought aside, you tip the cylinder forward until your mouth is full and swallow, coughing a bit as you replace the cap.

              “Stiles!” Allison’s tone is scandalized, her brow scrunched with worry.

             “Ally, ’s fine,” you aim for placating, but your eyes are already drooping, and your slurred speech doesn’t lend you any credibility, “I’ll see y’in the mornin’…”

 *

 Your first conscious thought is relief that you have, in fact, woken up the next morning. The next is a stinging pain as Allison’s palm cracks across your cheek.

              “Ow!” You protest, cradling the abused area.

 Allison is silent, her shoulders trembling as she glares at you. Anger or fear, most likely both, and you understand her feelings—you _do_ —but you don’t have time to indulge them. You hold her gaze, neither blaming nor apologizing, and eventually she lets loose a big, gusting sigh, shoulders slumping in relief.

              “On the plus side,” you venture, feeling reasonably certain you wouldn’t get slapped again, “my leg hurts a lot less.”

             She leans over you to poke at the cut and make contemplative noises. “It’s not bleeding so much anymore, anyway. And the infection seems to be gone.”

             “Just watch, I’ll be dancing a jig tomorrow.” You tease, just to watch her roll her eyes and throw her head back in frustration.

 Satisfied by your liveliness, she leaves the cave shortly after to forage and fish. You use that time to unpack and re-pack your backpack, tucking your filched knives into your pockets and leaving behind anything else that might help Allison survive. Either you’d survive and come back to reclaim it, or you’d be killed and you wouldn’t need it. Win-win, you think, morbidly.

 The hours pass, slowly at first, then quicker as you doze intermittently. Allison returns and you have a dinner of fish—raw out of caution and necessity, neither of you willing to risk the signal smoke of a fire—and berries, checked by you for poison, because for someone that allegedly spent half of her life in Twelve in the forest, Allison is frankly _awful_ at identifying edible plant life. She is quiet and fidgety during the meal, lost in her thoughts. You leave her there, hoping it’s better than reality. Finally, running out of excuses to avoid it, she looks at the silver canister with a fierceness generally reserved for snakes and spiders. You pick it up and unscrew the cap, hold it out to her. She takes it, unwillingness written across every muscle in her body.

              “I don’t need to use this, Stiles, I’ve been sleeping just fine.” She tries, unable to look you in the eye.

             “I don’t need to be a mind reader to know that’s bullshit, Ally. You’ve been staying up every night keeping an eye on me—don’t look so shocked, flabbergasted is not a great look on you.”

             “But—”

             “No ‘but’s, Allison. You need your sleep if you’re going to get out of here in one piece. Drink up.” You cross your arms and do your best to look implacable.

 She sighs, the tilt of her head accenting the purple bruises under her eyes, and seems to wilt. She gives in gracefully and lifts the thermos to her lips, swallowing deeply. You take the container from her unresisting hand gently, laying it aside and guiding her down to sleep, head laid on your backpack. You stroke her hair softly as her eyelids flutter and she drops off, loathe to give her any reason to worry before she has to. Once her twitches still and breathing deepens you move back, sparing a glance at the camera in the back of the cave, before slipping from the cave, silent as a ghost.

 Even with your leg improved by a good rest and sewn shut securely, the walk to the Cornucopia is very painful. You eventually work out a sort of lurching, loping stride that propels you forward quickly enough without straining the wound unduly. Using the river as a point of reference, you work your way into the forest, but the uneven terrain quickly starts tripping you up. Your arms become your main method of propulsion, using yourself like a human pinball and ricocheting drunkenly from tree to tree. Soon enough, you wind up at the edge of the clearing, at the center of which is a table with bags left on it temptingly, tauntingly. You watch, noting the absolute stillness from the Cornucopia itself. Long minutes pass and nothing stirs, you gather yourself and run, making directly for the table.

 You are only maybe an arms-length away from reaching out and grabbing the bag marked ‘12’ when a small knife went whizzing by your head, opening a shallow, stinging cut along your cheek. You whirl around just in time for a body to impact against your chest, topping you to the ground. A blade is pressed immediately to your throat as she kneels on your forearms, pinning them to the ground and crouching over your prone body. She leans forward, a lock of red hair brushing teasingly against your face and sticking in your blood.

              “I’ve been wanting to catch up with you for a while, Stiles,” she says conversationally, digging her sharp fingernails into your scalp where she holds your head down.

             “Well, that makes one of us, Lydia, because I was really hoping that someone had killed you by now.” She smiles, white teeth sharp and straight, and cocks her head.

             “Where’s your little fiancé? She just left you on your own with this?” She reaches back and grinds the palm of her free hand into the gash in your thigh, smiling beatifically at your choked-off scream. “Well, I guess you never really know someone until you have to fight them to the death. Speaking of which, it's too bad you couldn't help your little friend. That little girl. What was her name again? Erica?” Despite yourself, your eyes well with tears at the mention of her and you thrash against the knife at your throat, hissing in impotent anger. “Well, we killed her. And now we're going to kill you.”

 Her eyes sparkle with malice and you swallow roughly, knowing that she’s as good as her word. You see the muscles in her arm tense as she prepares to slice your throat open and then—

 A blur of brown and black rushes in like a freight train, knocking Lydia off of you and lifting her, one huge hand wrapped around her throat. Sitting up and scrambling backwards, you recognize the boy instantly—the other Tribute from Eleven, Boyd.

              “You killed that little girl?” His deep voice is full of rage, and Lydia thrashes, dangling a foot from the ground.

             “N-no! I didn’t kill her!” She scrabbles at the hand around her throat, but to no avail. He holds her effortlessly aloft with one arm, the other resting down at his side, a large rock clenched in his fist. You gulp, and try to make yourself blend into the background as much as possible.

             “I don’t believe you.” Boyd growls, and, almost quicker than you can make out, bashes her in the head with the rock in his other hand. She makes a high, wounded noise and then is silent, lays crumpled on the ground when he releases her. Her vacant eyes stare at you sightlessly, a trickle of blood dripping down from the deep gash at her temple.

 Your gaze snaps back to the boy towering over you as he turns, looking down at you with some indecipherable emotion in his eyes.

             “Just this time, Twelve. For Erica.”

You manage a nod and he takes it as the thanks that it is, turning to snatch the bags marked ‘11’ and ‘1’ off of the table. He doesn’t spare you another glance, simply running back into the forest south of the clearing, exiting as silently as he came.

 Taking a few deep breaths, you heave yourself to your feet, slipping the ‘12’ bag over your shoulder and limp as quickly as you are able back into the cover of the trees.

 The trek back to the cave is a blur to you, everything hazy with a strange mixture of residual terror and heady relief. Allison is still asleep when you finally make it and you take full advantage of that, lying down opposite her and allowing yourself a few hours to doze, floating between sleep and waking.

 It isn’t long before Allison stirs and sits up. You brace yourself. Her sleepy eyes scan you—covered in grass and with new cuts and bruises—and land on the bag at your feet. She pales and then colors a furious scarlet, hands balling into fists. Her hissed tirade lasts the rest of the afternoon and teaches you several new swear words.

 Eventually, when the moon is bright in the sky, her anger cools slightly and she fishes out the healing salve in the bag. It is a generous container, sleek and silver and obviously Capitol-made. It feels like ice on your wound, the edges of the cut prickling uncomfortably before going numb, almost like frostbite. You look dubiously at Allison, but she just snaps “You nearly got yourself killed for this stuff, you may as well _use it_!” and you swallow the rest of your complaints.

 You check your leg again after a night sleeping with the salve on and almost do a double take. The edges of the gash are beginning to knit together, turning into silvery scar tissue. You look up at Allison and laugh, relief making you giddy. For the first time since the knife sank into your thigh you think you might actually have a chance of making it out of this alive.

*

 A few days’ judicious application of the ointment close your wound entirely and you stretch, luxuriating in being able to trust your leg to hold you. By unspoken agreement, you and Allison keep your bags packed, knowing that you will soon have to leave the cave and venture after the remaining Tributes. You start to get antsy—the anticipation puts you on edge, leaving you fingering the hilts of your knives and Allison running restless hands over her bow. Your patience snaps at noontime and you grab your things, herding a confused Allison in front of you and out of the cave.

              “Nothing’s going to be accomplished just sitting here. We may as well walk around and get a feel for who’s left, at least.”

 She shoots you an annoyed look at your flippant delivery, but you can read the relief in the set of her shoulders. You are, neither of you, well suited to idleness and the opportunity to go and do something is welcome. The two of you set out in a direction and just walk, shoulder to shoulder, staying in tree cover as the sun rises and begins to set above you. Your companionable silence is broken only by birdsong and the rustle of your feet until the first stars are twinkling in the sky and you hear something in the distance. You gesture at Allison to be still and strain your ears. It comes again.

              “What was that?” Her voice is whisper-quiet next to you and you shake your head, unsure.

             “Nothing good.”

 The sound gets louder quickly, in a way that implies that it’s travelling towards you at speed. The louder it gets, the clearer you can hear the scrabbling of claws and growls of some type of beast, one you’d dearly like to avoid encountering. You take Allison’s arm and run towards the clearing with the Cornucopia, knowing that, at the very least, there you will have high ground and visibility.

 You burst into the clearing, terror lending you extra speed, and make directly for the hulking silhouette of the Cornucopia, boosting Allison up and then pressing your hands flat to the slick, metal surface, trying to get the traction to pull yourself up. Allison grabs the collar of your jacket and heaves you up a few feet before exclaiming sharply and letting go. You fling your arms out and manage not to slip back down to the ground by sheer force of will, twisting your body until your legs have purchase and you can maneuver yourself up, seeing the top of the Cornucopia for the first time.

 The reason for Allison’s release becomes immediately apparent as you take in her struggling form held against Jackson’s chest. Your heart gives a panicked thump behind your ribs, unwilling to believe that the two of you managed to survive this long only to get killed by this asshole in the eleventh hour.

 The beasts have surrounded the Cornucopia now, slavering and mindless, unnaturally twisted into a horrifying mimicry of wolves. They leap up, dashing themselves against the metal beneath you, eyes cloudy as a corpse’s. You feel cold sweat dripping between your shoulder blades at their proximity, but they are, against all odds, not your most pressing problem right now.

              “Hey Jackson,” you begin, keeping your posture loose and unthreatening, raising one arm to draw attention away from the knife you’ve palmed in your other hand.

             “I don’t want to hear it!” If not for the monsters beneath you, his snarl would be impressive. “They’re all dead. Lydia’s—” he chokes and breaks off for a minute, “It’s just me now. Me and you.”

             “Let her go, Jackson.” You see his eyes flit down to your weapon and he smiles humorlessly.

             “Go on, throw it. Then we both go down, and you win. Go on. I'm dead, anyway! I always was, right? I didn't know that until now.” He half-smothers a hysterical laugh, eyes wide and panicked. “Isn't that what they want, huh? No! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters.”

 A small movement in the periphery of your vision catches your attention. Allison, struggling to draw breath under Jackson’s thick forearm, weakly taps several times on his hand. You take a deep breath, knowing that if your aim is off even slightly, you could kill her. On your exhale you move, sending the small knife straight through the back and into his palm. He screams and recoils, dropping his hold on Allison and backing up reflexively. One step, two steps, and he goes back one too far, heels dropping down on thin air, too overbalanced to recover from. His face is pale as a sheet, terrified but somehow resigned as he drops from the edge of the Cornucopia. Allison winces at the first wet shriek that comes up from the place where he disappeared and, leaning over the edge, looses an arrow with a dull ‘twang’. It strikes true and the cries stop, the silence echoing and awful.

 The two of you move back after that, huddling together in the middle of the Cornucopia. You look at each other with a tremulous hope, that the two of you together may make it out alive. But as long minutes pass with no sign from on high, you feel tension creep back into your limbs. You rifle through your pack and remove a canteen, taking a few generous gulps.

              “Ally,” you say in an undertone, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “I think we’re gonna need a plan B here.”

             “What do you mean?” Her hands are shaking.

             “I mean, you’re gonna hafta rough me up a bit.” You spare a moment to regret the necessity of your next words. “It shouldn’t be hard for you, though, right? I mean, you just put Jackson down like a dog.”

             “Stiles!” Her voice is high and wounded, and you force a smile—the Gamemakers definitely heard that.

             “You’ve been plotting how to kill me all along, haven’t you?” You push her away from you, not enough to get her anywhere near the edge, but enough to rattle her.

             “No! Stiles, what are you—”

             “You were never planning on getting out of here together!” You bellow the words, allowing your voice to crack in the middle. Your vision greys slightly but you shake your head to clear it, pushing back the fog. You stand and pull out another small knife, leveling it at her. “You were probably working with Jackson the whole time!”

             “How can you say that?” Allison is shouting herself now, her face stricken and confused as she looks at the knife.

             “Liar!” You throw yourself at her and roll the two of you so that she is on top, taking care not to nick her with the blade. You pull her in close and whisper in her ear, _“I’ll play dead, you play Victor.”_

 She tenses, uncertain, and you flip her over again, bringing the knife between your chests, allowing her to reflexively grab its handle. Your arms are shaking and you know you won’t be able to hold yourself up for much longer. You push against her with all your weight, and in the dark space between your bodies, turn the point of your blade towards yourself. You hold until she begins to push back, then, locking your eyes on hers, you release, allowing the knife to thud home in your chest.

 It hurts, of course it does—it burns, and you gasp around it, eyes tearing up involuntarily. But you keep your gaze locked with Allison’s as you slump down, willing her to understand as you stop fighting the medicine and allow your breathing to slow to next to nothing and your eyelids to slide half-shut, eyes clouded and unfocused. You are faintly aware of Allison shifting underneath your deadweight, wriggling out to stand over you. You are very much aware of the hard kick to the stomach that flops you uncomfortably on your side, but the drugs prevent you from reacting in any way and the new angle of your body hides the ever-so-slight rise and fall of your chest. You can feel your blood pooling around you, can feel the heat leaving your body. You hope that you live long enough to see this through.

In the distance, a canon booms. You hear the opening strains of the Capitol theme song and a voice announcing that Allison Argent is the winner of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. The sound of beating air grows closer and closer until you feel cold metal enclose you and you’re floating, weightless, borne upwards. The wind cuts off abruptly some time later and you’re alone on a cold metal table. You hope—in the distant, muzzy way that you can, drugged as you are—that dead bodies are not tended to personally on these planes, and that, for the sake of expediency back to the Capitol, Allison is on the same transport. These were the variables you couldn’t plan for, and now, head full of cotton wool and strength dripping out of you along with your blood, you’ll just have to wait and see.

*

 Violent shivering is what awakens you, hours or days later, to the sight of Allison’s dark hair spread across your stomach. You make some sort of strangled noise, throat dry and uncooperative, and her head shoots up, red-rimmed eyes pinned on you. You smile weakly and twitch your fingers in a sad approximation of a wave. 

             “You jerk! You absolute asshole!” Allison thumps a fist against your shoulder, “You scared me half to death with that idiot stunt!”

             “But it worked,” you croak, unrepentant.

             “No thanks to you—I knocked out the Capitol escorts and put them in a closet. Thank god this thing flies itself, or our escape would be very short lived.”

             “How long was I out?” You feel for the wound in your chest and find it scabbed over and tender.

             “About four hours. I really thought that you were dead at first; there was blood everywhere. But you had a pulse, and I found the salve in my pocket, so I patched you up as much as I could.” She gives you a sardonic look at the mention of the salve, which you slipped in, unbeknownst to her, before you set out that morning.

             “Seemed like a good thing to have,” you shrug and sit up, wincing at the pull in your chest. You feel a bit weak but decide to risk standing and manage it with only a slight wobble.

Allison takes your arm and leads you into the main body of the ship, and from there into the cockpit. The view outside is spectacular, Panem laid out before you like a painting. You sit down in the Captain’s chair and just watch the scenery go by, giving yourself a moment to process the fact that you actually escaped from the Hunger Games alive.

Allison seats herself in the chair beside yours and you look over at her, gratitude welling up in your chest. Words between you are superfluous—the look she shoots you says that she feels the same and you turn away feeling content. The landscape below you is beautiful, if desolate, and you are distracted by it for several long minutes. Eventually, a trilling from a console on your right draws your attention.

One glance at the flashing red light on the control board makes your shoulders tense and you share a glance with Allison, reading the apprehension in her eyes. Part of you wants to ignore it—odds are it’s someone who has noticed the hijack of a Capitol vehicle and is en route to apprehend you. You and Allison are good in a fight, but you’re both running on empty, worn thin and unlikely to put on a good showing. The greater part of you knows that you have to answer it, though. That’s the part that has raged against the Capitol since the earliest days of your memories, the part that makes you spit in the faces of Gamemakers and mock the Enforcers. Gritting your teeth, you flip a switch and flinch almost imperceptibly as the windshield in front of you shimmers into opacity and a dark silhouette appears before you.

             “—do we know that they even pulled it off?”

             “Peter…?” Your throat is dry and you barely manage a whisper. Allison’s wide eyes are fixed on the flickering screen in front of you, disbelieving.

             “Stiles? Oh, thank god—” He whirls around at the sound of your voice, pale eyes piercing even through the grainy vid feed. There’s a tremulous smile on his lips as he turns slightly and yells the second half over his shoulder to someone you can’t see: “ _They’re here! They’re alive!_ ” You’re clutching the armrests of your seat so hard you can feel the thin metal denting.

             “Peter, who are you talking to?” You force yourself to speak slowly, softly. You’re proud that your voice doesn’t break, even though your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest. Allison’s slim fingers find yours and squeeze, both of your gazes rapt on the screen in front of you.

             “Stiles!” A worn, lined, beloved face fills the screen, more grey in the sandy brown of his hair than you remembered, but then again, seeing his son nearly die time and again probably accounted for that.

             “D-dad!” Your voice cracks this time, but you aren’t the least bit ashamed. You scrub at your eyes with the heel of your hand, because your tears are blocking your view of your _dad_ , who you hadn’t truly thought you’d see again in this life.

You hear a muffled struggle in the background of his vid feed and suddenly the camera is jerked around to a mop of shaggy black curls and huge brown eyes. You forget where you are and lunge towards the screen, would have crashed into it nose-first had Allison not pulled you back.

             “Scott!” You press your forehead to the screen and try to breathe through the jubilant sobs wracking your body. At first, his hiccupping and gasping render his words incomprehensible, but slowly you begin to make them out.

             “You kept…your promise…” You dissolve into sobs again and yield gratefully to the gentle pressure of Allison’s hands on your shoulders guiding you back down into the chair. You’re dimly aware of Allison’s dad appearing on the screen and her watery greetings to him. By the time you’ve got your tears and breathing under control, Peter is back onscreen.

             “You kids are goddamn unbelievable,” he says, mouth quirked into a genuine smile, “Big bloody heroes to all of the outer districts, and a shoot-on-sight order in the Capitol, of course.”

             “We live to please, boss.” Your voice is raspy, but your delivery is as sardonic as ever and it startles a full-bellied laugh out of Peter.

             “Well, we certainly are pleased to find you alive. And District 13 in particular would like you to remain that way. We’re heading there now—we’ll send you the coordinates.”

             “Thirteen?”

             “I knew they weren’t destroyed.” You hear Allison murmur next to you with the air of a long-standing argument finally won.

             “When it was down to you two and the boy I left the Capitol and went back to Twelve—I figured whatever happened I should probably get out of the line of fire—and Thirteen’s Mayor contacted me, said she’d seen what you two had done and that she thought Stiles was still alive. Said that, either way, both of you and your families were welcome in Thirteen. Mayor Argent, here, managed to nick us an airship and off we went. Then sensors picked up another airship heading away from the Capitol and lo and behold, our conquering heroes!”

             “So…it’s really over? I can’t believe it.” Allison has a white-knuckled grip on the console; her pale face makes the dark bags under her eyes stand out in stark relief. You jolt upright in your seat, a thought suddenly occurring to you.

             “Peter—what about Derek?” You ask, almost frantic, “And Laura, and Cora? You didn’t leave them behind, even you—”

             “How very rude,” Peter sniffs, hand over his heart, “They are my family too, you know. Of course I brought them.”

No sooner have the words passed his lips than is he shoved forcefully out of the frame and replaced by three dark-headed, light-eyed faces. They look tired and worn, as always, but there is a light behind their smiles that has been missing for years. Derek, in particular, has always looked older than his nineteen years—worry lines etched into his serious face and premature stubble adding up to what his sisters lovingly called his “grumpy old man face”, but now he looks years younger. His ever-present 5 o’clock shadow has grown out into a short beard but his eyes are bright and his smile is wide and beautiful and your heart is overflowing. They’re all talking to you at once, but it doesn't matter because you can’t make out a word of it over the ringing in your ears. After a brief struggle off-screen, you see Peter appear at the edge of the frame and slowly edge the siblings out, dragging the screen away from them despite loud and creative protests.

             “What a sentimental bunch, honestl—OW!” Peter cuts himself off with a yelp. You assume, based on long association, that Cora has bitten him.

             “Anyway—” Mayor Argent takes advantage of Peter’s distraction to shoulder him out of the frame and take over the explanation. “We are going to Thirteen to join the resistance. You two just thumbed your noses at the Capitol in the most public way imaginable—you’re already the de facto faces of the resistance. Whether you want to participate in any other way is up to you, but be prepared for Thirteen to ask.”

             “Alright,” Allison nods, “thanks for the heads-up.”

Everyone falls silent for a minute after that, overwhelmed and bone-tired. You say quiet, misty-eyed farewells and promise to rendezvous as soon as possible. When the screen goes black, you let out a long breath.

             “So…” You let the pause stretch out, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. “This is it, huh?”

Allison doesn’t respond for a minute, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Finally, she smiles and shakes her head slightly.

              “No, I think this is just the beginning.”

A wide grin splits your face; so wide that your cheeks hurt. You reach out, taking her hand just as you did on the day of the Reaping. Against all odds—you’re both alive, your families are alive, and you have your whole lives ahead of you.

             “I really like the sound of that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> AND EVERYONE LIVES HAPPILY EVER AFTER, THE END.
> 
> Sorry re: Clove!Lydia, also sorry re: killing…everyone, but it is The Hunger Games, after all. 
> 
> So in all likelihood, this will be my last TW fic. I've completely stopped watching the show and the only reason this got finished was that it was 98% done and I refused to scrap it. Sorry for anyone disappointed, but I'm sure we'll meet again in other fandoms. :)


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